iancaldwell&dustinthomason.theruleoffour-第10章

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　The　Roman　Francesco；　on　the　other　hand；　appeared　to　be　a　model　of　every　scholarly　virtue。　According　to　my　father；　he　was　the　son　of　a　powerful　noble　family；　who　raised　him　in　the　best　of　European　society　and　had　him　educated　by　the　highest…minded　Renaissance　intellectuals。　Francesco's　uncle；　Prospero　Colonna；　was　not　only　a　revered　patron　of　the　arts　and　a　cardinal　of　the　Church；　but　such　a　renowned　humanist　that　he　may　have　been　the　inspiration　for　Shakespeare's　Prospero　in　The　Tempest。　These　were　the　sorts　of　connections；　my　father　argued；　that　made　it　possible　for　a　single　man　to　write　a　book　as　plex　as　the　Hypnerotomachia…and　they　were　certainly　the　connections　that　would've　ensured　its　publication　by　a　leading　press。
　What　sealed　the　matter　entirely；　to　me　at　least；　was　the　fact　that　this　blue…blooded　Francesco　had　been　a　member　of　the　Roman　Academy；　a　fraternity　of　men　mitted　to　the　pagan　ideals　of　the　old　Roman　Republic；　the　ideals　expressed　with　such　admiration　in　the　Hypnerotomachia。　That　would　explain　why　Colonna　identified　himself　in　the　secret　acrostic　as　〃Fra〃：　the　title　Brother；　which　other　scholars　took　as　a　sign　that　Colonna　was　a　monk；　was　also　a　mon　greeting　at　the　Academy。
　Yet　my　father's　argument；　which　seemed　so　lucid　to　Paul　and　me；　clouded　the　academic　waters。　My　father　hardly　lived　long　enough　to　brave　the　teapot　tempest　he　stirred　up　in　the　little　world　of　Hypnerotomachia　scholarship；　but　it　nearly　undid　him。　Almost　all　of　my　father's　colleagues　rejected　the　work；　Vincent　Taft　went　out　of　his　way　to　defame　it。　By　then；　the　arguments　in　favor　of　the　Venetian　Colonna　had　bee　so　entrenched　that；　when　my　father　failed　to　address　one　or　two　of　them　in　his　brief　appendix；　the　whole　work　was　discredited。　The　idea　of　connecting　two　doubtful　murders　with　one　of　the　world's　most　valuable　books；　Taft　wrote；　was　〃nothing　but　a　sad　and　sensational　bit　of　self…promotion。〃
　My　father；　of　course；　was　devastated。　To　him　it　was　the　substance　of　his　career　they　were　rejecting；　the　fruit　of　the　quest　he'd　been　on　since　his　days　with　McBee。　He　never　understood　the　violence　of　the　reaction　against　his　discovery。　The　only　enduring　fan　of　The　Belladonna　Document；　as　far　as　I　know；　was　Paul。　He　read　the　book　so　many　times　that　even　the　dedication　stuck　in　his　memory。　When　he　arrived　at　Princeton　and　found　a　Tom　Corelli　Sullivan　listed　in　the　freshman　face…book；　he　recognized　my　middle　name　immediately　and　decided　to　track　me　down。
　　
　If　he　expected　to　meet　a　younger　version　of　my　father；　he　must　have　been　disappointed。　The　freshman　Paul　found；　who　walked　with　a　faint　limp　and　seemed　embarrassed　by　his　middle　name；　had　done　the　unthinkable：　he　had　renounced　the　Hypnerotomachia　and　bee　the　prodigal　son　of　a　family　that　made　a　religion　out　of　reading。　The　shockwaves　of　the　accident　were　still　ringing　through　my　life；　but　the　truth　is　that　even　before　my　father　died；　I　was　losing　my　faith　in　books。　I'd　begun　to　realize　that　there　was　an　unspoken　prejudice　among　book…learned　people；　a　secret　conviction　they　all　seemed　to　share；　that　life　as　we　know　it　is　an　imperfect　vision　of　reality；　and　that　only　art；　like　a　pair　of　reading　glasses；　can　correct　it。　The　scholars　and　intellectuals　I　met　at　our　dinner　table　always　seemed　to　hold　a　grudge　against　the　world。　They　could　never　quite　reconcile　themselves　to　the　idea　that　our　lives　don't　follow　the　dramatic　arc　that　a　good　author　gives　to　a　great　literary　character。　Only　in　accidents　of　pure　perfection　does　the　world　actually　bee　a　stage。　And　that；　they　seemed　to　think；　was　a　shame。
　No　one　ever　said　it　that　way；　exactly；　but　when　my　father's　friends　and　colleagues…all　but　Vincent　Taft…came　to　see　me　in　the　hospital；　looking　sheepish　about　the　reviews　they'd　written　of　his　book；　mumbling　little　eulogies　for　him　they'd　posed　in　the　waiting　room；　I　began　to　see　the　writing　on　the　wall。　I　noticed　it　the　moment　they　walked　to　my　bedside：　every　one　of　them　brought　handfuls　of　books。
　〃This　helped　me　when　my　father　died；〃　said　the　chairman　of　the　history　department；　placing　Merton's　Seven　Storey　Mountain　on　the　food　tray　beside　me。
　〃I　find　great　fort　in　Auden；〃　said　the　young　graduate　student　writing　her　dissertation　under　my　father。　She　left　a　paperback　edition　with　one　corner　clipped　off　to　remove　the　price。
　〃What　you　need　is　a　pick…me…up；〃　another　man　whispered　when　the　others　left　the　room。　〃Not　this　bloodless　stuff。〃
　I　didn't　even　recognize　him。　He　left　a　copy　of　The　Count　of　Monte　Cristo；　which　I'd　already　read；　and　I　could　only　wonder　if　he　really　thought　revenge　was　the　best　emotion　to　encourage　just　then。
　None　of　these　people；　I　realized；　could　cope　with　reality　any　better　than　I　could。　My　father's　death　had　a　nasty　finality　to　it；　and　it　made　a　mockery　of　the　laws　they　lived　by：　that　every　fact　can　be　reinterpreted；　that　every　ending　can　be　changed。　Dickens　had　rewritten　Great　Expectations　so　that　Pip　could　be　happy。　No　one　could　rewrite　this。
　　
　When　I　met　Paul；　then；　I　was　wary。　I'd　spent　the　last　two　years　of　high　school　forcing　certain　changes　on　myself：　whenever　I　felt　the　pain　in　my　leg；　I　would　continue　to　walk；　whenever　instinct　told　me　to　pass　by　a　door　without　pausing…the　door　to　the　gym；　or　to　a　new　friend's　car；　or　to　the　house　of　a　girl　I　was　beginning　to　like…I　would　make　myself　stop　and　knock；　and　sometimes　let　myself　in。　But　here；　in　Paul；　I　saw　what　I　might　have　been。
　He　was　small　and　pale　beneath　his　untended　hair；　and　more　of　a　boy　than　a　man。　One　of　his　shoelaces　was　untied；　and　he　carried　a　book　in　his　hand　as　if　it　were　a　security　blanket。　The　first　time　he　introduced　himself；　he　quoted　the　Hypnerotomachia。　I　felt　I　already　knew　him　better　than　I　wanted　to。　He'd　tracked　me　down　in　a　coffee　shop　near　campus　just　as　the　sun　began　to　set　in　early　September。　My　first　instinct　was　to　ignore　him　that　evening；　and　avoid　him　ever　after。
　What　changed　all　that　was　something　he　said　just　before　I　begged　off　for　the　night。
　〃Somehow；〃　he　said；　〃I　feel　like　he's　my　father　too。〃
　I　hadn't　told　him　about　the　accident　yet；　but　it　was　exactly　the　wrong　thing　to　say。
　〃You　don't　know　anything　about　him。〃
　〃I　do。　I　have　copies　of　all　of　his　work。〃
　〃Listen　to　me…〃
　〃I　even　found　his　dissertation。　。　。　。〃
　〃He's　not　a　book。　You　can't　just　read　him。〃
　But　it　was　as　if　he　couldn't　hear。
　〃The　Rome　of　Raphael；　1974。　Ficino　and　the　Rebirth　of　Plato；　1979。　The　Men　of　Santa　Croce；　1985。〃
　He　began　counting　them　on　his　fingers。
　〃　'The　Hypnerotomachia　Poliphili　and　the　Hieroglyphics　of　Horapollo。'　In　Renaissance　Quarterly；　June　of　'87。　'Leonardo's　Doctor。'　In　Journal　of　Medical　History；　1989。〃
　Chronological；　without　a　hitch。
　〃　'The　Breeches…Maker。'　Journal　of　Interdisciplinary　History；　1991。〃
　〃You　forgot　the　BARS　article；〃　I　said。
　The　Bulletin　of　the　American　Renaissance　Society。
　〃That　was　in　'92。〃
　〃It　was　in　'91。〃
　He　frowned。　〃'Ninety…two　was　the　first　year　they　accepted　articles　from　non…members。　It　was　sophomore　year　of　high　school。　Remember？　That　fall。〃
　There　was　silence。　For　a　second　he　seemed　worried。　Not　that　he　was　wrong；　but　that　I　was。
　〃Maybe　he　wrote　it　in　'91；〃　Paul　said。　〃They　only　published　it　in　'92。　Is　that　what　you　meant？〃
　I　nodded。
　〃Then　it　was　'91。　You　were　right。〃　He　pulled　out　the　book　he'd　been　carrying　with　him。　〃And　then　there's　this。〃
　A　first　edition　of　The　Belladonna　Document。
　He　weighed　it　deferentially。　〃His　best　work　so　far。　You　were　there　when　he　found　it？　The　letter　about　Colonna？〃
　〃Yes。〃
　〃I　wish　I　could've　seen　it。　It　must've　been　amazing。〃
　I　looked　over　his　shoulder；　out　a　window　on　the　far　wall。　The　leaves　were　red。　It　had　started　to　rain。
　〃It　was；〃　I　said。
　Paul　shook　his　head。　〃You're　very　lucky。〃
　His　fingers　fanned　the　pages　of　my　father's　book；　gently。
　〃He　died　two　years　ago；〃　I　said。　〃We　were　in　a　car　accident。〃
　〃What？〃
　〃He　died　right　after　he　wrote　that。〃
　The　window　behind　him　was　fogging　up　at　the　corners。　A　man　walked　by　with　a　newspaper　over　his　head；　trying　to　keep　dry。
　〃Someone　hit　you？〃
　〃No。　My　father　lost　control　of　the　car。〃
　Paul　rubbed　his　finger　against　the　image　on　the　book's　dust　jacket。　A　single　emblem；　a　do